


No Flag of Surrender

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: Mycroft Holmes comes across John Watson, a sex slave who has signed his body away to the Diogenes Club following his return from Afghanistan. Please bear in mind that human trafficking is a very serious issue which far exceeds the bounds of this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Flag of Surrender

He's standing at stiff attention when Mycroft notices him.

 _So unlike the other ones who keep their eyes averted – either afraid or simpering, pretending to flirt._

He doesn't. He stares into middle distance.

 _Wary. But he's been here for some time. He knows what is expected of him._

Mycroft has not had the need to avail himself of the Diogenes Club's more exotic amusements in the past month. Not until now.

He nods at the man. The silent servant prods him and the man falls into step before Mycroft.

 _Never turn your back on them. Not until you're **certain**._

* * *

In his small room, Mycroft sits as the man stands, still at stiff attention. Mycroft has seen many men standing thus – but not here. Those men have stood at attention on endless tarmacs, beneath blazing suns, and before thousands of officials.

 _Military._

Mycroft studies him. The tan lines – they end at the cuffs and collar. Obviously recent.

"Remove your shirt," he commands. "Turn."

 _Scarring. Shoulder wounds, no, wound. A bullet then, not flak from an IED or suicide bomb. AK-47, judging from the exit pattern. Afghanistan._

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He does not reply.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Mycroft asks again. "Answer."

* * *

"Afghanistan." The answer is quiet. Grudgingly given.

Mycroft feels a flicker of satisfaction.

"Kneel," he commands.

The man grimaces, sinks to his knees.

 _Hesitation. He thinks he knows what's to come. Why has he chosen this?_

Mycroft runs his hand over his shoulders – brushing scar tissue and uninjured skin alike. He flinches.

 _It would be so easy – a hand in the hair – forcing his jaw back – the mouth falling open. Doubtless it's been done to him before._

 _No._

Mycroft is not a man to take his pleasures from the unwilling, though.

But his need is great. Ignored for too long.

* * *

Mycroft might be dangerous and powerful, but he is neither cruel nor sadistic.

But this man is there for a purpose. And Mycroft has need of him.

"Strip and lie down," he orders.

The man's expression does not change, but he obeys.

Mycroft readies himself, approaches the bed.

On the table are the condoms and lubricant. Of course the man is clean, he would not be here, otherwise. Still, it is protection for the club's property as much as it is protection for its members.

The man doesn't move as Mycroft prepares him. Waits. Endures.

 _Relax. I won't hurt you._

* * *

"Turn over."

 _He obeys. Of course he obeys, he knows the price of disobedience already – it is mapped in the scars on his hips._

He is flawed. Damaged. Angry.

"It does not have to be this way," Mycroft tells him.  
His gaze flits to Mycroft and then back to the ceiling.

Mycroft does not have time for relationships. For love. But he does have time to make his encounters pleasing, at least.

"Relax."

 _Relaxation of the shoulders and chest._

Mycroft runs his hand over his chest, down his abdomen.

 _Still flaccid. Not necessary, but..._

"I will not force you."

 _Surprise._

* * *

The remainder of the encounter is conducted in silence, but for the rasp of breath and stifled gasp as the man comes – spills over Mycroft's hand.

 _He didn't expect it._

Mycroft pulls away, removes the condom, cleans himself.

"Come here." He remains crouched on his hands and knees.

"Come."

He waits and the man shuffles back to where Mycroft is sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Relax," Mycroft commands. The towel is damp and warm as Mycroft cleans him gently. Finishing with a kiss to the small of his back.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "It's okay, John."

John shudders.

* * *

The fact that he knows my name isn't, in and of itself, remarkable.

The fact that he uses it when he finishes with me is.

When he asked me "Afghanistan or Iraq?" I almost flinched.  
 _How does he know?_

But I am trained to be still. Not to react. Even now.

The others don't like it, would prefer me to thrash and moan.

But he makes no complaint. And kisses me instead, calling me by name.

I wish sometimes he wouldn't. It's too much.

He returns regularly, asks for me – the others suggest he fancies me.

He prefers my silence.

* * *

"John, come here."

I stand before him – at attention. Staring at the wall.

"You're worried about your sister. She doesn't know you're doing this. Would you like to phone her?"

 _How did he know about Harry?_

"John I asked you a question. Would you like to phone your sister?"

"No, sir."

 _It's in my file._

"It's not in your file, John. It's in your look. In the photo of her that you keep in your pocket. Is she drinking again?"

 _Endure._

"John, you don't belong here."

 _No._

"What would you prefer, sir?"

He sighs.

"Very well, John. Suck me, please."

* * *

He never touches me when I suck him.

In my peripheral vision, I watch his hands clench and unclench on the arms of the chair.

I've learned – teeth and tongue, sliding up the shaft, circle at the head, plunge back down. Take him by surprise taking all of him into my mouth.

 _Suppress the gag reflex. Swallow around him._

He moans when I do that – his fingers tighten and flex.

I'm almost exclusively his, now. I think he's had a word with the _venalicius_.

 _Venalicius. Latin for "slave-dealer". How public school._

He almost thrusts into my mouth as he comes.

* * *

This time it is different as I sit back, swallowing, clean him and tuck him back into his trousers.

Perhaps it's because he mentioned Harry.

His hand reaches out to cup my cheek. Gently. Carefully.

 _What does he see when he looks at me?_

He's powerful, he wields it like a weapon, ready to strike, confident in its lethality. The others are afraid of him. But I had nothing left of me to fear.

Until he mentioned Harry.

"I would like to help you, John."

The question comes unbidden.

"Why? Sir."

 _Fuck. Shit. No._

He smiles briefly. He's broken me.

* * *

  
Mycroft knows he's won when John asks him "why?"

 _Because you don't belong here. Because you're beautiful in that moment that you fall apart and you think I don't see it. Because you make me come undone with your mouth, your lips, your tongue, your arse like I've never been able to before._

He merely smiles. He knows better than to tell him.

 _Because I want him for my own._

 _Because I want him to need me._

He knows better.

Want and need – concepts rarely in alignment. His brother can attest to that.

He brushes his cheek, rises to leave.

* * *

Mycroft manages to stay away for three weeks.

Interesting how one chance encounter can change behaviors.

When he sees him again, he's been beaten by another member.

 _No. He is **mine**._

Still silent, still tense, he stands, awaiting his orders.

"Strip."

"Lie down. No. On your back."

"Close your eyes."

He gasps as Mycroft takes him into his mouth.

 _Let me show you what you give me._

Such a desire is unlike him.

 _What do you do to me, John Watson?_

Mycroft has fucked him enough times to know where his limits are. When he's achingly hard. What he _needs_.

* * *

Mycroft pulls away and look up.

He is staring at him, flushed. Lips reddened from his teeth. Hands fisted in the sheets.

 _He is damaged and beautiful._

Mycroft stands. Sheds his clothes. John watches him – sees his hardening cock, his body – not as firm as his.

"What do you want?" he asks. Hard. Wanting. Still wary.

In this moment, things will shift. In this moment, Mycroft will know if he was correct.

"I want you to fuck me."

The silence in the room is shattering.

"Please, John." This will tip the balance.

He nods. Slowly.

"You trust me," he whispers.

* * *

It is everything Mycroft wanted.

"Kiss me," he demands. A direct violation of the rules. But then, the rules have already been discarded.

Mycroft complies.

His kisses are wet. Dirty. Desperate. Mycroft could drown in them.

Together they tussle on the bed, John's knee parting Mycroft's as he uses his agility to roll him onto his back.

His hands are pinned above his head.

Mycroft struggles against him.

"Tell me you want this," John gasps. "Tell me…"

"I trust you," Mycroft says.

Fingers. Lubricant. A condom.

"Tell me your name. I can't fuck you if I don't know your name."

* * *

John slides into him, one finger, two fingers.

It's glorious. Painful – the burn and the stretch.

Mycroft thrusts against his hand and watches as John's eyes widen.

 _Yes. I want this. Your fingers. The way you touch me. Your cock. You feel so good. Pressing into me._

John's smiling.

 _Yes. My arse is greedy, fuck me with your fingers, the way I fuck your mouth with my cock._

 _Press into me, oh, God, yes. There, John. There._

Mycroft can tell that John's hard, watching him. Waiting.

"Now, John. Please. Now."

It's beautiful when John slides into him. Stretching. Filling him.

* * *

He's hot and tight around my cock. His head is thrown back and hands on my shoulders.

 _Fuck, but he's beautiful._

"Tell me your name. I can't fuck you if I don't know your name."

 _What the hell? Why am I asking? I could be beaten for this._

"John… Please…."

I slam forward into him.

He cries out. It's intoxicating. His surrender.

"Touch yourself," I rasp. "Touch your cock, get yourself off."

 _I can feel your heat around me. And I want to watch you come._

"Yes, John."

He submits as I sit back, pressing his legs to his shoulders.

* * *

He comes with a cry – the cry he's held back every time until now.

His neck is exposed, his body broken, his come on his stomach.

 _One small move. Pressure to the larynx. He's open. I could kill him. Be free._

And then he tightens around me and I'm coming, gasping.

In the aftermath, after he's cleaned me, kissed the small of my back, whispered my name, he holds me as I fist the sheets, furious.

 _Furious with myself. Furious with him for using me. Furious with the world. Harry. Him. Myself._

"Mycroft," he whispers, breath gentle.

 _What the hell?_

* * *

How long they lie together, Mycroft doesn't know, holding John against his chest.

He feels John's sated and sleepy breathing.

 _I gave this to you. With my body, I gave you release. Will you forgive me if I offer you more?_

The urge to confide overwhelms him and he whispers.

"Mycroft."

He feels John stiffen.

How much he's given this afternoon, how much John's given. It overwhelms him.

He needs to leave, to _delete_ the experience, to use his brother's terminology.

It's dangerous to tell them things. Even if you want to trust them.

 _Never turn your back on them._

* * *

"You've been pensioned off," says the _venalicius_.

"How?" I ask.

"Excellent question," he replies. "Not for you to be asking, though. Somebody's paid your debts. Set you up with the resettlement office. Get your kit. You're leaving."

Which is how I find myself sitting alone in a bedsit with an embarrassingly large amount of money in my bank account and a therapist who says I have trust issues.

 _If only she knew._

Interestingly, I don't dream of the Diogenes Club.

Instead, I dream of fire and deserts and blood.

I don't know which is worse.

I know who ransomed me.

* * *

The gun sits in the desk drawer. I found it on the third day.

 _Does he think I will use it on myself?_

 _Is he giving me the option?_

 _What's his game?_

"Keeping a blog of what happens to you will honestly help you adjust to civilian life," my therapist tells me.

"Nothing happens to me," I reply.

On that afternoon, I come back to the bedsit and find him waiting for me. Sitting on my bed.

 _Finally. I was wondering when he would come._  
"You expect me to thank you," I say.

"Do you want to thank me?"

 _No._

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

"I assuring myself that you are in good health."

"Yes, well. Here I am."

"I think, Doctor Watson, that you should take a walk this afternoon. I find walking, especially in this unseasonably fine weather, to be… invigorating."

"Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" I demand.

He smiles – or his lips twitch.

"No, thank you for the offer, Doctor," he replies. "I do not find that urge particularly pressing at the moment.

 _Oh._

"But I rather think you _should_ take that walk. It's always interesting, the people you meet on walks."

That's how I meet Mike.

* * *

When Mycroft sees the familiar features of John Watson on the surveillance monitors, he allows himself a frown.

 _That was not my intent._

When he sees John slide into a cab with his brother, his frown deepens.

 _Time to see just what he's up to._

"I have a phone," John calls out, getting out of the car. "You could have phoned me. On my phone."

He freezes when he sees Mycroft.  
 _Ah, there it is. The anger, the defiance._

"What are your intentions toward Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong… but I think that's none of your business."

 _How interesting._

* * *

It's different with Sherlock. Everything is different. Even the air seems… different.

I'm not a poet, but a blogger, apparently.

Although Sherlock takes violent exception to my frank evaluation of his body of knowledge – or lack thereof.

I don't know why it matters to me that he knows about the solar system.

Perhaps because he's like a comet, hurtling through space.

And then we meet Moriarty and everything changes again.

Laser-lights. Pips. Explosions and finally the voice of the little boy.

It's done, but Sherlock won't put the phone away.

And it's Semtex and my gun.

The world ignites, burns.

* * *

 _Please God, let me live._

 _Please God, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Let me die._

"JOHN!"

Through flames, I see shadows.

Through the roar, I hear my name. Weight on my legs and arms.

"SHERLOCK!"

 _Who's Sherlock?  
Oh, Godgodgodgodgod, it fucking burns._

Blue lights.

Red lights.

Wailing. Who's crying? Why do I hear the gasping, rasping of breath?

Water.

Fire.

There is no earth. No air.

 _Please, God, why can't I die?_

 _Let me. Letmeletmeletmeletmeletme._

Darkness seeps over me, feet, legs, torso, arms.

 _Please God, let me die._

"JOHN!"

All I can feel is that I am burning.

 _God._

* * *

The pain is greater when I breathe.

So why won't they let me stop?

"You're here again, Mycroft?"

The squeaking of wheels and Sherlock's voice. I can't see them.

"You shouldn't be out of bed."

Mycroft.

"Bored."

"You'll injure yourself."

Sherlock huffs and wheels himself away.

"Why _are_ you here, Mycroft?"

I wonder myself.

"It's not because of me," Sherlock continues. He pauses. "It's _John_. Why John?"

"That's not for you to know."

"You knew him. Before."

"Sherlock…"

"When?"

"Sherlock…"

"Afghanistan? Oh, my God. You're in _love_ with him!"

Mycroft doesn't answer. I feel a cool hand on my forehead.

* * *

"He's unique," Mycroft finally answers.

"You've noticed."

"Yes. I did know him first."

"Where?"

"That's not my secret to tell, Sherlock."

Sherlock wheels away with an offended squeak.

I'd smile if I could.

"But you made him _live_ ," Mycroft continues softly.

I've never heard Sherlock silenced like this.

"Care for him, Sherlock. He's more precious than you could possibly know."

Sherlock doesn't reply. I hear him wheel himself out.  
I'm alone.

I think.

And then Mycroft's lips are on my forehead.

"Forgive him, John," he whispers. "And… forgive this sentimental fool who fell in love with you."

* * *

Weeks bleed into months. There is work – always work, Her Majesty's Government does not sleep, and sleeping slows him down.

He arranges for their convalescence in Switzerland (Sherlock protests at the rank Victorianism of it all). While there, he arranges for Moriarty to meet his demise – an unfortunate hiking accident.

Sherlock refers to it as _deus ex Mycroft_.

Mycroft rather enjoys that.

Life, such as he has chosen to live it, continues.

Until he finds Dr Watson in his office, standing at attention waiting for him.

"You're supposed to be abroad," Mycroft says quietly.

"And you said you loved me."

* * *

It's six small words – one syllable each – that nearly bring Mycroft to his knees.

"You heard."

"Yes."

Mycroft opens his palms. The ball is obviously in Dr Watson's court.

"Don't call me that," Dr Watson says.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're calling me Dr Watson in your head. I'm not… not to you."

Mycroft's chest tightens.

"And just what are you to me?" he asks.

Dr Watson, _John_ smiles. Not the tight, under pressure smile. But the slightly befuddled and amused smile he's worn around Sherlock from time to time.

"I don't know. It's as if we've had a _traditional_ relationship."

"True."

* * *

On the mantle, a carriage clock chimes the hour.

"I don't know," John says again. "It's… complicated. And of course I can only imagine what Sherlock would do if…"

"Christmas," Mycroft says. "Would be a nightmare."

John laughs and Mycroft can't help joining him.

John takes a step forward. "But I do know…"

"Yes, John?"

"I forgive you." A whisper, the promise of a kiss on his lips. Mycroft's eyes flutter closed.

John's tread makes no sound as he leaves the room, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

For the first time in years, Mycroft feels _free._

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. PJ - thank you for the encouragement.


End file.
